


An Old ‘Friend’

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: SHOOT prompt: Team Machine's new number is one of Root's old flings. Shaw doesn't know why, but seeing them around each other and talking and stuff makes her irrationally angry. They have so much in common. Both good with computers, etc. Shaw tries to get John to take over for her so she can just stop seeing Root and her gorgeous ex interacting. Root tries to reassure her, but Shaw shrugs her off and says she doesn't care and is just tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Old ‘Friend’

“The Machine starting Her day early?” Root asks Harold Finch in an overly cheery tone, walking into the run down subway terminal. It’s four in the morning, and the yawn threatening to break on Harold’s lips shows it.

“Very,” he replies, looking away from his computer screen to the dashing brunette. His screen is filled with files and photos, littered with social media sites, and teeming with the story of their newest number’s life. “I’m glad you got my call.”

“ _I’m_  not,” Shaw grumbles, emerging from the shadows just behind Root. Harold’s eyes snap to her in surprise, where he sees her in the clothes he can almost swear he remembers seeing yesterday.

“Miss. Shaw,” he greets slowly, looking her over with curiosity. “Did Miss. Groves tell you to come in?” Harold catches Root stiffening from the corner of his eye, yet Shaw remains unfazed.

“Yeah,” she replies in a tone irritated with sleep. “You ever see her go anywhere  _without_  me?” Root smiles slyly at that, casting her affectionate gaze Shaw’s way.

“It doesn’t help that every time I  _try_ , you follow me,” Root coos, causing Shaw’s ears to redden the slightest bit. She clenches her jaw and rolls her eyes, but keeps her mouth firmly shut. Harold’s eyes scan between the two, trying to decode the underlying subtext between them, but decides now is not the time.

* * *

 

Spinning back towards his computer, he begins typing once agin. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you, but I only needed an extra set of eyes. No numbers to dash off towards just yet.”

“I can wait,” Shaw responds, although her spiteful eyes are set directly on Root as she walks away. Root only smiles as she watches her go, then steps behind Harold’s chair, placing her head beside his to get a closer look. He peers over at her, studying her, then returns his gaze to the screen.

“Something you want to tell me?” He asks in a murmur that doesn’t carry past Root. Root’s smile rises slightly before she can manage to control it.

“About?” She responds, a secretive air making her voice all the more lively.

“Perhaps something between you and a certain someone  _else_  in the room?” He elaborates, shooting the quickest glance her way. A stunned laugh escapes her as she gives her head a humored tilt back. When she realizes Harold is truly waiting for an answer, she closes her eyes before rolling them, then takes in a breath.

“Something you wanted me to look at?” She asks, changing the subject. With the smallest of triumphant smirks on his lips, Harold organizes his findings on the screen.

“We have a new number by the name of Maria Zamboni. I’ve been working on finding out anything about her, but what I’ve come up with is surprisingly scarce. A few credit card transactions, a parking ticket, and a social media sight dedicated to baking.”

“Seems like a normal person,” Root comments, nodding her head as she scans the receipts.

“I’d agree with you,” Harold responds. “Except, Maria Zamboni didn’t  _exist_  until three months ago. There are no records, no high school diploma, no license- not even a birth certificate.” He clicks, and a picture of a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes pops up on the screen. Root takes one look at her and her breath gives a hitch.

“That’s because she’s  _not_  Maria Zamboni,” Root tells him, a silent awe in her tone as she comes to an upright stand. Harold turns the chair to look at her. “That’s Shannon Phillips.” Harold’s brow furrows, concern on his face as he tries to put it together.

“You  _know_  her?” He asks.

“You can say that,” she responds. Leaning back over, she types the name into Harold’s data pool, and the same face pops up.

“Who is s-”

“Where is she now?” Root questions, cutting Harold off. After a second of hesitation- unsure if she will be too attached to think clearly- Harold pulls up her cellphone on the map.

“The last place I’ve found it is at Fifth Ave of New York City.” Root taps the table with one hand before taking off briskly for the subway car. Grabbing some ammunition and another handgun, she heads back towards the exit.

“Does that mean something to you?” Harold calls to her as she stashes away the small arsenal; however, she doesn’t answer.

Shaw looks up from her seat on the subway’s bench with a flicker of interest in her eyes. She and Harold share a look, and Shaw pushes herself to a stand before chasing after Root in the most nonchalant, I-don’t-care- _that_ -much way.

“Hey, Root,” Shaw says, walking only a step behind. When Root doesn’t acknowledge she’s heard anything at all, Shaw grabs her forearm, wheeling her around. Root’s initial countenance is annoyed, yet it dissipates into a doting smile and endearing eyes as she sees the serious expression on Shaw’s face. “What’s going on?”

“I know where she is,” Root replies, then continues out of the station.

_________\ If Your Number’s Up /__________

“Who is Shannon Phillips?” Shaw asks as they force their way through the thick crowd that consumes Fifth Avenue. Root barely gives a glance back, slipping between two men in business suits. Shaw merely steams straight ahead, checking both of them with her shoulders and taking a few quick steps to catch up.

“An old friend,” Root tells her, a small smile creeping onto her lips as she says it. At seeing the secretive grin, Shaw’s muscles wind tight.

“The kind of  _friend_  you have coffee with, or the kind you have sex with?” Shaw says in a demand-like tone, and Root laughs lightly.

“Does it  _matter_?” She counters coyly, raising her eyebrows at Shaw. Shaw begins to open her mouth, to indignantly spit that yes it  _does_  matter; however, she knows that will only make mayhem. So, she keeps her mouth shut tight, anger steaming from her ears. Root sees it, and her smile widens as her eyes glow with adoration. “Didn’t know you cared, Shaw,” Root coos, bumping into Shaw’s shoulder.

“I care about the  _mission_ ,” Shaw grumbles back, eyes narrowing. “I only want to know what I need to  _expect_.” Root nods her head, not believing a word, and turns to face straight ahead.

“Are you sure you’re not just  _jealous_?” Root quips, and Shaw’s shoulders turn to rigid boards. She can feel her ears heating up and looks away, not wanting Root to see.  _The last thing she needs is another reason to annoy me._

She’d given Root a pretty big reason already. It all happened about a month ago, and to this day Shaw doesn’t even allow herself to think about it. Let’s just say it involved a late night stakeout, too much coffee, and the world’s seemingly smallest Subaru. A one night stand in lamest terms, yet Shaw couldn’t shake it. It wasn’t like any other she’d had over the years, and that very realization drives her to the brink of insanity. And- to make matters worse- Root acts no different. She merely teases Shaw more and get’s into her head farther. Two things Shaw cannot stand.  _How does she act like nothing happened?_  Shaw finds herself thinking for the umpteenth time. Then, realizing that’s she’s dwelling on the topic yet again, shoves it into the darkest corners of her mind.

Root makes a sharp cut right, nearly smacking into Shaw, as she heads straight towards a large, brick corner store. Shaw follows right behind, then notices the large Barnes and Noble sign set between two large windows- two stories worth of the closest thing the world has to magic.

They enter, trading the bustling city street for a silent store filled to the brim with novels instead of people. Only a few walk past them- all absorbed in the books they’re holding- and the two go unnoticed in the store. Root walks with purposeful strides, course pre-set and eyes already seeing where to go. Shaw tries her best to keep up without having to jog.

Up the stairs and through a labyrinth of shelves, Root slows down as she comes to a few small clusters of tables before the windows. Her lips move as she silently counts, eyes flickering to different seats with each number.

She starts towards the third table closest to the window, and as Shaw follows, she sees blonde hair spilling from a purple beanie.

“The Turn of the Screw,” Root reads from the cover of the book. “Almost as cheery as the last book you picked out.”

Shannon’s eyes jump from the page, their Caribbean blue falling on Root in surprise. She sucks in a shocked breath, then- seeing who it is- her entire body relaxes. Leaning back into her chair, her shoulders shake with a well-stunned laugh, and a pearly white smile takes over her lips as she brings a hand to her chest.

“Oh my- You scared the  _Hell_  out of me, Sammy,” she chuckles out in a voice like classical music. Shaw watches the way she looks at Root- studies the way Root gazes back- and feels herself loathing the situation more and more.  _An old friend my ass_. “What are you doing in the city?” She asks.

“ _I’m_  not the one who left,” Root tells her, and Shannon nods her head solemnly. Root takes a seat across from Shannon at the circular table, and Shaw plops down in the one next to Root angrily. Crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair, Shaw watches with harsh eyes and a cross attitude as the two converse.

“Well, I’m back,” Shannon chirps merrily. Then, with a wink, she adds, “and better than ever.” Shaw all but groans in annoyance at the sorry line. However, to her distaste, she finds Root amused by it.

“I’m assuming what brought you here has little to do with me?” Root jokes, leaning in on the table.

“If it didn’t, then why would I sit somewhere I knew you’d find me?” She counters, and Root presses her lips together, forcing down a grin. Shaw coughs. Shannon’s eyes flicker over, then do a double take. “Who’s this?” She asks, eyes already back to Root.

“You can call me Shaw,” Shaw answers instead, voice icy as she wears a vicious smile.

“A colleague of mine,” Root explains, and something like relief filters through Shannon’s eyes. Shaw’s jaw tightens, and she rolls her neck in distaste.

“Your colleague any good with computers?” Shannon asks. “I need all the eyes I can get.” She protrudes a heavy, grey laptop from the satchel at her side, then places it down delicately on the table.

“I never knew you to be one who asks for help,” Root teases her playfully before sliding her chair close to Shannon’s side- too close for Shaw’s comfort. Now, instead of being at Root’s side, she’s the one completely across the table. Irritated, she leans over, swiping the now out-of-use novel at Shannon’s right, and brings it to her face. Flipping to a random page, she tries to focus on the words, yet the black print swims meaninglessly in her head. She’s only able to focus on Root and Shannon.

“Who’s Maria Zamboni?” Root asks, voice drawn up with mock-curiosity. Shannon stiffens at once.

“Where’d that name come from?” Shannon responds, trying to remain as casual as possible. Root points to a spot at the bottom corner of the screen.

“It says Maria Zamboni’s PC.” Shannon relaxes, easy smile back on her lips. She takes a half-nervous glance Shaw’s way, then leans in close to Root’s ear.

“Witness Protection Program,” she whispers, but Shaw clings to every word. Moving the book up higher to conceal her face entirely, she taps her ear wig.

“Get that, Finch?” She asks, eyes peeking up over the novel before darting back down.

“Loud and clear,” he responds a moment later, already typing on the keyboard. “That  _could_  explain why her number came up, and why the Machine gave us an alias.”

“Just keep on it,” Shaw mumbles to him. “The sooner we’re done with this case, the better.” Hanging up, she places the novel down in time to see Root and Shannon talking quietly amongst each other. Just seeing the way Root acts around her, Shaw is certain their number is Root’s ex, and a rather gorgeous one at that.

 _Why did she never tell me?_ Shaw fumes to herself. The longer she sits here watching the two talk, the more furious she becomes, until- finally- she finds her self irrationally angry. Fire courses through her veins and smoke billows from her ears. Her heart hits like a ticking time bomb dialing closer and closer to detonation.

Then, Root stands.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” Shannon asks, a hope in her voice that makes Shaw feel sick.

“You can count on it,” Root replies, then slips away from the table. Shannon’s eyes stay on Root adoringly; however, feeling eyes searing her skin, she turns. Her eyes widen a fraction at the intensity of Shaw’s malicious gaze. Shaw waits until she hears Root’s footsteps stop before tearing her gaze away.

“Her name is  _Root_ ,” Shaw says coldly, standing up, then stalks towards the staircase.

“ _Someone’s_  grumpy,” Root jeers as they make their way down the steps. Shaw doesn’t respond, so Root tries again. “Hope you don’t mind watching her apartment through the night. With her situation, she could be in trouble at  _any_  minute.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just  _invite_  yourself to spend the night with the Blonde Wonder,” Shaw spits harshly, pushing open the front doors and mixing into the busy street throng.

“And why would I do  _that_  when I could go on a stakeout with  _you_?” Root asks suggestively, and Shaw’s ears turn hot as her chest tightens in fluster.

“The two of you seemed to hit it off,” Shaw tosses out with the slightest bitter hint to her tone. Root gives her an agreeing nod that sends red flashes to Shaw’s eyes. “It kinda seems like you never  _stopped_  talking.”

Root laughs at that, flipping her hair over one shoulder as she looks at Shaw with affectionate eyes. “Worried you have competition?” Root questions, an honest amount of surprise in her voice.

“You wish,” Shaw retorts, rolling her eyes.

“Well, if it assures you any,” Root says to her, voice verging smug, “the last time I saw her was at the wedding.”

Shaw stops dead in her tracks, losing Root instantly in the crowd.

_The wedding?_

____________\ We’ll Find You /____________

Shaw hovers over Harold’s shoulder as he scans over every database he can crack, searching per Shaw’s request. Every so often, Shaw pushes away from the desk, paces a few times, then returns.

“Anything yet, Harold?” Shaw asks, eyeing the screen, although the random strings of access levels are gibberish to her.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but Miss. Phillips is almost as secretive as her new identity. And, if she  _is_  a part of the Witness Protection Program, then it will only make recovering what you’re looking for harder.” Shaw, unsatisfied with the answer, begins to pace once again, her mind scanning over everything she already knows.

Shannon Phillips, born in Massachusetts, has a GED from Belmont High School and a degree in technology from New York University. Her last recorded job was an IT manager at an import corporation operating on a Pennsylvania Navy Base. She lived in New York City throughout her college career and then some; residing in Manhattan a total of seven years, where she spent time taking cooking classes and volunteering at old book stores. Her internet life wasn’t much, a shock for someone who lives and breathes computers. A myspace page that went out of use around 2001, and an IM account that tanked shortly after- the same year she finished college. Any accounts of relationships from that time on are unaccounted for, but Shaw can infer that Root fits into the picture some time between then and 2004.  _Hopefully, she’s not a part of_ all _of them._

Other than her IT job, Shannon Phillips worked as a tech for a corporation that was blacked out of every file. Bank records showed a large, steady income for those three years, along with random jumps anywhere between five thousand and nine thousand dollars. Then, four years ago, Shannon Phillips disappeared. And three months ago, Maria Zamboni emerged.

As helpful as the information is, it isn’t what Shaw is searching for. She doesn’t want technical garbage, she wants personal details and life experiences. Shaw wants to know her birthdate, her favorite color, her first bike ride- she wants to know the thoughts in Phillips’s head before she even thinks them. Shaw wants to know this woman inside and out. More than anything, though, Shaw wants to know what Root’s part was in ‘the wedding.’

“I found something,” Harold calls to her, and she instantly drops her recollections, B-lining directly for the desk. “While Miss. Phillips was not one for social media, her friends were. By using a facial recognition program, I scanned through-”

“Skip the explanation,” Shaw interrupts, eyes devouring every word on the screen. “Just tell me what you have.”

“In 2005, a small group of people gathered at a hall in Bridgeport, New Jersey. I found photos of invitations through the online networks.” He clicks a button, and a picture of a vanilla card with swirly font pops onto the screen.

The Wedding

You are Invited to a Not-So-Official Marriage Ceremony for Shannon Phillips & Christina Hemmway. August 7th, 2005. VFW off of West Broad St. 6:00pm-11:00pm.

“The Wedding,” Shaw whispers out to herself, adrenaline beginning to surge through her.

“Does that mean anything to you?” Harold asks, swiveling in his chair to look at her. She shakes her head.

“Find photos from the hall,” she instructs him, all the while her nerves rattle her to the bone. As far as she’s concerned, this invitation is a good sign. Root’s name is no where on it. But then, she thinks of all the aliases. The four members of their team alone blow through them like Dixie cups, and it didn’t just begin with their work for the Machine. Shaw begins wracking her brain, trying to think of an incident where Root had ever mentioned the name Christina Hemmway. Nothing comes to mind.

“Here,” Harold says with a victorious hint to his tone as photos litter the screen like a dropped deck of cards. Most of them are blurry men in tuxes and smudged women in light blue dresses dancing under strobe lights; however, Shaw picks out a few distinguishable pictures.

Two women in white dresses. One, with her blonde hair tied up in a fancy bun, is unmistakably Shannon. The other has dark brown hair that falls over her shoulder in waving tendrils. Shaw’s stomach drops, breath coming in shorter bursts as her heart starts to race.

“Make this one bigger,” Shaw commands, jabbing a finger into the computer screen. Harold gives her a snide glare, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t need to  _touch_  the screen so  _hard_ ,” he tells her bluntly before double clicking the photo. Now large, Shaw takes in the woman of about five eight with dark hair, a bright smile, and green eyes.

_Green eyes._

Pressure Shaw didn’t even know had been building falls away at once, and her muscles all unwind. Seeing her ease, Harold minimizes the photo, leaving the rest for Shaw to sift through. Her eyes skip over the pictures, up and down the rows of shots barely bigger than thumbnails, until she comes across one of a blue dress. Shaw points, and Harold clicks.

The first thing that hits Shaw is the intensity of the blue fabric. It’s an elegant string-together of pieces, leaving slashes in the sides and falling to the knees. In the background, colored lights illuminate random people dancing, all the while allowing the champaign glass to catch it all like the aurora borealis. The woman holding the glass has black fingernails. And dark brown hair cut to her shoulders with waves straightened just for the occasion. Her chestnut eyes are crinkled with the laughter she’s been caught in the middle of, and her smile is breathtaking.

“Did she ever tell you about this?” Harold asks, focus lost on the photo of Root.

“Nope,” Shaw replies, just as taken away. Suddenly, Shaw hears clicking heels quickly approaching. Throwing herself at the computer, she hits the escape button, and the hours of work Harold had been compiling vanishes.

“ _Why_  would you do-” Shaw silences him with one fatal look, and Root walks up to greet them both. She looks from Shaw to Harold and back, eyes drawn up in curiosity.

“You almost ready to go, Sam?” Root asks, keeping her tone affectionate, all the while her eyes are preoccupied. “ _I’ve_  got a coffee date, and  _you’ve_  got a Nikon to man.”

“Actually…” Shaw starts, trying to find an excuse off the top of her head. The idea of having to sit outside in a car and watch Root get hit on by the blonde goddess of the century seems too much to bear. “I’m going to stay with Harold. He’s been teaching me the, uh, computer stuff.”

Root raises an eyebrow her way as Harold turns to her.

“I thou-” Shaw places her hand on his shoulder, thumb digging into his pressure point enough for him to see stars. Root begins to say something, but Shaw beats her to it.

“I’ll see if I can get Reese on it. I’m sure he’d love to get out of the office.” Root nods slowly, trying to piece everything together. “Just, you know, go on your date or whatever it is.” Root’s jaw hangs slightly agape, a loose smile crawling onto her lips.

“Is  _that_  what this is about?” Root asks, a rumble of laughter in her voice as she shakes her head. “You  _really_  don’t have to be ups-”

“I’m not  _upset_ ,” Shaw seethes defensively, hand gripping Harold’s shoulder tighter.

“Then come with me,” Root counters, and Shaw’s lip twitches. Go and see them interacting? The two of them that- with only one encounter- Shaw can see have terribly good chemistry? Both excellent with computers, both sharp minded and sharp tongued, and both very much into each other- no, Shaw would rather throw herself into a computer 101 session of Hell with Harold than see that.

“Listen, I’m tired, and I  _really_  don’t care enough to make sure you’re okay.  _You_  can watch your little girlfriend;  _I’m_  staying with Harold.” Root presses her lips together, stung by Shaw’s words, but doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she gives a mechanical nod before taking a step back from the table. She lets go a tight smile that comes out as a grimace- not helped any by the dejected eyes- and slips away.

“Let…  _Go_ …” Harold hisses, neck cocked at an awkward angle, eyes narrowed in pain. Shaw, realizing she still has him pinned, releases his shoulder. Instantly, he rolls it in circles, other hand massaging the spot as he fights dots out of his vision. “If you really want to keep them apart, you should have gone with her,” Harold says, finally recovered.

“Yeah, and watch them get matching tattoos and a marriage certificate?” Shaw snarls back hotly. Then, she stops. “I never said  _anything_  about keeping them  _apart_ ,” she spits. “I’m  _tired_.”

“Maybe it’s from the hours of research you had me do that you  _don’t_  want Miss. Groves to see?” He asks accusingly, and Shaw bristles defensively.

“Just send me all the pictures,” Shaw grumbles, pushing away from the desk. “I’m gonna check and see if any of the other people in those photos aren’t slinking around the city.”

Without waiting for Harold to reply, Shaw exits the station, closing her eyes against the sun as it splashes across her face. Her phone buzzes as she wanders down the street, and she swipes it unlocked to see thirty or so photos filling her screen. She scrolls through them until her vision settles on the photo of Root, where she looks it over again. This time- now in private- more thoroughly than before. Then, realizing just what she’s doing, she swipes it away. However, for every time she flicks away from the photo, she comes back to it with more interest than ever.

Blinking a few times, she clicks the photos off, calling John Reese. Three rings later, he picks up, and the sounds of the police department fill the background.

“You busy?” Shaw asks him, nearly getting hit by a taxi as she aimlessly crosses the street.

“Depends on what you need,” he replies humorously, and Shaw purses her lips in annoyance.

“I need you to watch the number and Root. They’re at a coffee station just off Time’s Square.”

“I’m not going to spy on Root’s date just because  _you_  want to keep tabs on her,” John goads, and Shaw’s jaw clenches tight. Her phone beeps urgently in her ear, signaling another call coming through. Without saying goodbye, Shaw hangs up on Reese.

“ _What_ ,” she spits into the receiver, eyes closed tight as she tries to squelch her annoyance.

“Miss. Shaw, we have a problem,” Harold’s voice comes through the ear wig fretfully, and Shaw instantly goes rigid.

“What  _kind_  of a problem,” Shaw responds cautiously.

“Shannon Phillips- a.k.a. Shannon  _Hemmway_ \- unofficially married in 2005, legally married by the state of New York in 2011, and killed in a car crash that same year.”

“Killed in a  _car crash_?” Shaw asks, confused.

“Yes,” Harold confirms, words firing out without pause. “Along with her wife, Christina Hemmway, who was driving. The car burst into flames on impact, but two severely burned bodies were found and confirmed.”

“Then how is Shannon Phillips in New York?” Shaw asks, gears turning in her head a million miles an hour. There is no response, only computer typing. “Harold,” Shaw demands, and he is jolted back to life.

“Oh, my…” He trails off, leaving Shaw all the more irritated.

“What. Is.  _It_ ,” Shaw snarls, tone threatening to strangle him through the phone.

“Our victim has just turned into our perpetrator,” he informs her with mortification in his tone. “And you need to see the file.” Shaw swears, wheeling around and slamming into a group of people as she pushes savagely against the traffic.

“And Root’s alone with her,” Shaw says, more scolding aloud than filling Harold in. “Without any backup.”

____________\ An Old ’ _Friend_ ’ /___________

“Hey, why don’t we get out of here?” Shannon Phillips suggests, placing down her empty coffee mug. “There’s this used book store I worked at, and the old man that runs the place always needs help updating the computers.”

Root sets her own cup back on the table, wiping her mouth with a napkin as she nods. Standing, the two pay for their drinks before heading out.

“Can I ask you something?” Root questions as Shannon leads the way down the street. Shannon nods, straightening her satchel as she fixes her attention onto Root. “If you’re in the- you  _know_ \- now, what happened to Christina?” Shannon pales at that, the blood draining from her face.

“They have her at a- a, uh  _different_  location. Until everything is settled,” she answers gravely, and Root gives her a sympathetic look.

“It might be over sooner than you think,” Root tells her in an assuring tone, all thoughts pointed to the Machine. _If She gave us Shannon’s number, then it has to do with the case, right?_

“I’d like to hope so,” Shannon agrees, taking a left down a desolate alleyway filled with dumpsters and squatters. They travel this way for some time before taking a right down an even narrower path, and Shannon stops before a heavily barred door, the name “Barry’s Bookstore” all but faded to oblivion on the brick wall.

“How did you ever find  _this_  place?” Root asks jokingly, and Shannon lets out a sweet laugh.

“Leave it to the internet,” she replies, yanking open the door. It screeches on old hinges, and the smell of old books and crushed vanilla immediately engulfs Root. The door slams heavily behind them, the only light coming from old incandescent lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, and two barred windows on the side facing the larger of the two alleys.

Looking around, Root sees no computers in sight. However, before she has time to ask why, her phone rings. Shooting Shannon an apologetic smile, Root turns to face the window, taking the call with an exuberant grin.

“Root,” Shaw’s voice hits her in a rush before Root even has time to bring the cell all the way to her ear.

“Hey, Sweetie,” Root responds, voice oozing affection as her eyes glow. “You done being mad at-”

“Root, listen to me.” Root’s smile falters at the dire urgency in Shaw’s tone. Worry clouds Root’s features, and her eyes scan the window as she tries to rationalize.

“What’s w-”

“Shannon isn’t the victim. The Witness Protection Program was a lie, just like her new ID. I’m on my way to the coffee house now, but you need to get away from her.” Root feels icy fingers encasing her heart, and she strains to breathe normally.

“No, no,” Root replies in a conversational tone, hoping for her sake that someone will walk into the store. “We just finished coffee. I’ll be home soon, okay? We’re just stopping at-”

“You can hang up the phone now.” Shannon’s voice hits Root from behind like a dagger to the back. All the kindness of her tone is gone, coldness warping her into someone Root doesn’t even recognize.

“Root?” Shaw asks into the phone. “Root.”

“Turn around.”

Root turns in place, phone still to her ear. Her breath catches silently at seeing the gun held in Shannon’s hands. “Now hang up the phone.”

“Three, left. Four right,” Root says quietly, and Shannon fires a shot past Root’s ear close enough to make it ring. She hangs up, head in a fog from the closeness of the bullet, and everything seems muffled with cotton. Slowly, she comes to.

“I’m not going to tell you again: drop it.”

Root drops the phone.

“Step on it.”

Root smashes it under her heel. With that out of the way, Shannon relaxes the smallest bit, leaning on one of the waist-high bookshelves as she keeps the gun trained on Root’s center mass.

“Do you know how long I’ve  _waited_  for this?” Shannon asks, voice hitting a pitch near hysteria. Root smiles.

“Listen, if this is about the breakup,” she says in an amused tone, “I thought it was a mutual agree-”

“I’m not here to listen to you  _joke_  around,” Shannon spits, clicking off the safety. Root nods her head in understanding, keeping her mouth shut. Shannon takes a breath, steadying her hands as she continues.

“I always knew you were good with computers, but I had no idea  _how_  good. Good enough to get anyone to kill for you. Good enough to put hits out on people with the click of a button.” Root’s brow furrows in confusion.

“What are you talking about?” She asks.

“I’m talking about you being a killer for hire,” Shannon shrieks, stepping closer to Root angrily. “Pulling strings and watching your puppets drop bodies at your feet. But you never payed attention to who they were,  _did_  you?” Shannon shakes her head in disgusted contempt. “Does your colleague  _know_  what kind of monster you are?  _Huh_?”

“I…”

“ _Does_  she?” Shannon demands, and Root swallows.

“I… I don’t know,” she answers truthfully with a sad shake of her shoulders. Shannon’s lip curls into a sneer as her eyes catch fire.

“Well  _I_  do,” she says in a loathing snarl. “I know  _exactly_  who you are now, Root. That’s what they all called you, right?  _One_  name that signed their paychecks as long as they pulled the trigger.  _One_  person that gets to choose who lives and who dies. Who gave you the right to play  _God_?” Her voice reaches a fever pitch as the rage leaks from her every pore.

Root shakes her head, lips pressed together. “I don’t know,” she answers again. “And whether it makes a difference or not, I realized that a long time ago.”

“Not long  _enough_ ,” Shannon spits. “You didn’t stop  _soon_  enough. Because of you, she’s  _dead_  you know.” Root’s mouth opens the slightest bit in confused thought.

“She?”

“Christina,” Shannon retorts, years of agony streaming out in that one single word. “Because of  _you_ , someone killed her while we were on our way to Virginia for the weekend.”

Root brings a hand to her mouth, a mixture of horror and nausea hitting her in one harrowing wave.

“Oh my… Shannon, I had no-”

“ _Don’t_  say it,” Shannon seethes, mouth foaming and eyes livid. “Don’t  _say_  you had no idea. Because you  _knew_  what would happen the second you sent someone out. Whether you took the time to look at who you were killing or not, you had  _exactly_  the idea.  _I’m_  the one who had no idea. When I came to, I was in a  _burning_  car and my wife had a  _bullet_  in her head. Do you  _know_  what that does to a person?” Root shakes her head.

“It makes them  _track_  the bastard down. It makes them  _follow_  every lead possible- use every  _computer_  resource they have- to find a guy that can only give them one word: Root. And that leads them through  _four years_  of living underground looking for this Root, only to find she isn’t in business any more. But I got  _real_  lucky, didn’t I? If your friend hadn’t said something the other day, I wouldn’t have known. I would have went with killing the hit man. But no, not when I can kill the person behind the curtain.”

“Here I am,” Root responds solemnly, and Shannon nods.

“And here you are. You know the  _worst_  part? Of  _all_  the people- of  _all_  the monsters in the world- I never,  _never_ , thought it would be you, Sammy, not  _you_. I liked you. Even after we were done, I thought we were good friends. So, I’ll make it quick. Because what are friends  _for_?”

She takes another step forward, hand trembling with rage as she aims it right for Root’s head. At only a few feet away, it would be impossible to miss. Root knows that.

_‘POP!’_

There is nothing. For six seconds there is absolutely nothing. There is so much nothing, that Root thinks she’s dead. But then, she realizes she’s thinking, and knows she can’t be. Then, she opens her eyes. She hadn’t even known she’d closed them until now, where she sees Shannon sputtering like a fish out of water, floundering about on the ground. Slowly, feeling comes back, and Root can feel tiny shards of glass against her calves. Turning numbly, she sees a hole in the glass window between the bars, and glass litters the ground below. Lastly, sound returns, and the ringing of adrenaline subsides for the pained moans of Shannon Phillips as she clutches her abdomen.

“That woman,” she sputters between teeth grinding in pain. “The woman- from, from the book store- did she  _shoot_  me?” Root looks down at her, a weird alienation creeping into the space between Shannon and herself. Finally, Root tilts her head.

“What are friends for?” Root asks, just as Shaw storms through the metal door, smoking gun in hand.

“C'mon, Root, we’re leaving,” Shaw commands, walking over to Root, grabbing her hand, and tugging her forcefully back towards the door.

“What about Shannon?” Root asks, and Shaw gives the woman on the floor less than half a glance.

“Police will be here soon. Now let’s  _go_.” She pulls Root out the door, not letting off her speedy pace until they clear the alley completely.

“Found me just in time,” Root breathes out, her nerves still scrambled enough that she can’t help but smile.  _Smile or scream._

“Yeah,” Shaw responds, zig-zagging them in and out of people, wanting to get them as far away from the scene as possible. “But next time, instead of one of your little brain puzzles, an address will do  _just_  fine.”

“I knew you could handle it,” Root all but purrs. Shaw rolls her eyes, but a hint of a smile lights up her face. They travel in silence a little ways, and Root can’t help but think of everything Shannon said. Of how she’s a killer. Of how she’s a monster.  _Does your colleague_ know _what kind of monster you are?_

“Shaw?” Root asks, and Shaw gives her a quick look back. “I, uh… What do  _you_  think of Root Groves?” She says at last, keeping her tone light although her eyes are serious. At the peculiar question, Shaw slows down to a near stand still, walking right alongside Root as she peers at her quizzically.

“She’s annoying,” Shaw answers, and Root smiles a little. “And stubborn. And trigger happy. But she’s good at what she does.” The smile slips into a slanted frown with the last piece, eyes clouding with troublesome thought once again.

“Good at killing people?” She asks.

“Good at saving them,” Shaw corrects, and Root feels a flood of relief wash out her system. Hearing it from Shaw only makes the statement better, and she allows some of the guilt within her to float away. Root keeps her eyes on Shaw, and Shaw watches her just the same, the ghost of a smile on her face as her eyes study every inch of Root’s face. Finally, a characteristic smirk busts out on Root’s lips.

“There a reason you’re  _still_  holding my hand, Shaw?” Root asks playfully, although her heart jumps spasmodically in her chest. Shaw looks down, seems to realize it for the first time, and yanks her hand away at once. “I didn’t say you  _shouldn’t_ ,” Root presses on, a large grin threatening to spread across her face at seeing the fluster in Shaw’s eyes. “Just didn’t know  _why_.”

“What does it matter?” Shaw counters, and Root tilts her head Shaw’s way, eyes set to full blast.

“I’m a curious person,” she replies, and Shaw gives a chuckle in response, rolling her eyes in good nature. Something about Shaw has shifted- Root can tell she’s not as angry as she has been the last few days, and the harsh words she’d spit out earlier seem all but forgotten.

“You’re in a good mood,” Root says to her, and Shaw doesn’t tell her otherwise. “You feel better because you got to shoot her?” Shaw looks at Root from the corner of her eye, and a small, secretive smile quirks at the corner of her mouth.

“A little.”


End file.
